


The Devil and Doctor Watson

by MapleleafCameo



Series: Demons and Pies [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Bets & Wagers, Crack, Demon Mycroft, Demon Sherlock, Did I mention sex?, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magical Realism, Nefarious Powers, Sex, Sherlock is a Brat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-04-17 00:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4646016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored and threatens to wreck havoc upon London, so what's an older brother to do but find him a distraction. To keep him occupied and hoping to finally go on vacation, Mycroft makes a bet with Sherlock that Sherlock can't corrupt Doctor Watson. But of course John isn't that easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Upon the Dome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. I have a bunch of other stories started & I promise I will get to them – especially These Shores, but I could not get the image of Mycroft & Sherlock sitting on the dome of St. Paul’s out of my head (weird little head of mine). And I’m not really sorry. This will be one that will be worked upon as the mood strikes. I hope you enjoy it & find it a least a wee bit funny:)
> 
> Thanks to mattsloved one for looking this over & johnsarmylady for soem excellent suggestions & ideas:D

Gleaming in the early evening light, the Cathedral rose above the city, stunning and stately. A cathedral to St Paul had stood on the highest point in London for more than 1400 years. A beautiful building and a triumph of design, it had been envisioned by Britain's most famous architect, Sir Christopher Wren. It is rather doubtful he had factored in the two figures currently sitting upon the dome, surveying all of London. Of course, he might have. It may never be known for sure. The dome was often used as a meeting place for the two. The view of humanity from the top of St Paul's was relatively unimpeded, and familiar patterns could be observed and recorded. Likely subjects would be easily spotted, and an agreed upon course of action taken.

 

At the time our story takes place, the full colour of an autumn sunset was descending upon the city. Noisy and bustling as always, the crowded streets were perpetually full of people hurrying from offices, hurrying from shops, hurrying to the theatre district, never taking the time to stop and smell the exhaust fumes, merely hurrying.

 

The older of the two, (let's call him Mycroft) sat nattily dressed in a bespoke three-piece suit, shoes polished to a remarkable shine, legs crossed, holding an umbrella. He detested rain. In spite of his nefarious powers, he could never predict the amount of precipitation that might fall at any given moment. If he didn't enjoy tormenting these particular denizens as much as he did, he'd move someplace drier. His attention was currently engaged in watching a man, seemingly humble, dressed in clothes at least three years old, patched and mended, clean but faded. A cab driver, obviously living on borrowed time (aneurysm), and was currently contemplating whether or not he should take the offer presented to him by a remarkable man (surprisingly not a demon, not yet). Asked to poison random strangers in return for money, he would be able to secure a future for his children. A gentle nudge in the right direction and the cabbie's mind was made up.

 

The younger (he will be addressed as Sherlock) was utterly and thoroughly bored. He was always bored. It could be his seconded name. Boredom was the reason they had ended up working for the Prince of Darkness in the first place. (And hadn't they rolled their eyes at that self-proclaimed title.) Luce had always been a drama queen, but he knew where to find intriguing and interesting activities. So, tired with Heavenly duties, when Lucifer had called it quits, Sherlock had cleared out as well. So much more scope for his imagination working for the King of Hell rather than the King of Heaven.

 

Mummy had remained neutral, neither supporting Lucifer and his brothers nor denying them homemade baked goods when they came to call. She ended up settled in a little home away from home in Purgatory and would stay a few centuries at a time, tired of being underappreciated by TPTB. She still loved Father, but he was so medieval in his attitude about female rights.

 

Mycroft had followed, partly because he could see the benefits of making calculated mischief but mostly out of an odd sense of duty to Sherlock. That and Mummy had said, "Go after him and stop him from blowing up the Earth just yet. Your Father will not be pleased if he does. Remind him it's not a chemistry lab. Or at least it's not his chemistry lab."

 

At the moment, Sherlock, less stuffily dressed, but also in an expensive suit, two-piece with a dark purple shirt, was subtly encouraging the pedestrians on the Millennium Bridge to walk slightly more in step with one another thereby triggering sympathetic vibrations. It made it far harder for them to walk, and he found it amusing. Not gut rolling, laugh out loud funny. He rarely laughed. But entertaining enough to watch as the increased oscillations forced everyone to stagger about a bit. Perhaps one day, if it were allowed, he would force enough across at the same time, marching in sync, to cause the bridge to collapse.

 

"You never get tired of that do you," Mycroft sniffed. He flicked imaginary dust off of his jacket.

 

"No, I don't. It amuses me. So little does these days. It is so utterly boring. I rather wish something interesting, something new would happen instead of this same sameness. I need something, Mycroft. Get me something!"

 

Mycroft sighed. It was so very difficult and dangerous to deny Sherlock anything. It had been like that for millennia. Even though Mycroft enjoyed their little bets and games, it was getting tiresome to try and find new things to interest his brother. If he didn't, Sherlock could and would wreck a lot of havoc in a city this size. Last time he had been bored he'd allowed that Scottish fellow to take over Doctor Who. Now it was utterly unwatchable. Plot holes as big as your arm.

 

Casting a glance over the populace, hoping to see something or someone to tempt Sherlock, Mycroft's beady little eye was caught by a lone figure, standing on the bridge, looking through the rails. Something about him was…different. He seemed ordinary. Ordinary and uninspiring at first blush, but there was a definite…something. An itch crept into the back of Mycroft's mind, twigging his brain. What was it about this man? Focusing more intently upon him, he carefully lowered his shields and beheld his soul.

 

_Former Army Captain, Doctor, shot in Afghanistan, sniper attack, invalided home, lost and alone, purpose taken away from him, nightmares, possibly suicidal, adrenalin kink, sexually adventurous, reputation with both sexes, but there is something else. Something I've not seen for a very long time, something different, oh my word! This could be fun and not just for Sherlock._

 

"Sherlock, take a look at that human male there," he nodded in the direction of the man on the bridge. "What do you see?" He was fairly certain Sherlock had never encountered one before. They were as rare as the proverbial snowball at Mummy's house.

 

"That little fellow? The one that looks like a hobbit?" Sherlock had been very interested in that story when it was published.

 

"You think everyone shorter than you looks like a hobbit. Yes, the one with the cane. Tell me what you see."

 

"Hmmm, invalided home from Afghanistan, shot in the shoulder, psychosomatic limp and seems to be recovering from enteric fever as well. There's a family member he is concerned about but to who he does not speak. He is verging on suicidal but not yet. He is waiting for something. And it is against his moral principles. He is very honourable, a core of strength. Oh! He is bisexual and what a reputation. Hmmm. There's something there, just below the surface. I can't quite…how intriguing. Mycroft, is he? I've only heard rumours."

 

"Yes, I do believe he might be. But I don't think he knows anything about it."

 

Sherlock's eyes sparkled. Mycroft hadn't seen him this excited for a long time. A glimmer of an idea was percolating in his brain. Turning to Sherlock, he said, "Brother dear, I have a proposition for you. I will bet you cannot corrupt that human."

 

A frown graced Sherlock's face. "You seem more familiar with his type than I am. I don't trust you."

 

"Don't be ridiculous. They can be corrupted, and when they are, they fall far further and much harder than a normal mortal. I bet you can't bring him over to our side, that you can't convert him. That he will remain moral and true to himself and his beliefs."

 

Sherlock, eyes narrowed in thought, continued to look in the direction of the man. "What if I do? What if I bring him over? So what?"

 

"What are you asking?"

 

"What's in it for me?"

 

All it took was a spark and a slight breath of wind on a powder keg. Mycroft almost (almost) grinned. He hadn't allowed himself to grin since the Plague. Now that had been fun. "If you bring him over I will help you create whatever act of mischief you desire. The bridge, a riot, fix a football match. Whatever you like."

 

A scoffing noise came from Sherlock's direction. "Football? Seriously? Not a chance. Rioting in combination with the bridge."

 

"Deal."

 

"What if I lose?" Sherlock's face glowed with an unholy light. It took Mycroft a moment to realize it was just because he'd lit a cigarette.

 

Here was an opportunity that only came around once in a long while. Mycroft had been waiting to take a vacation. There was a little villa on Rhodes he had spotted, dreamt of visiting, perhaps take a friend with him and have an honest to goodness rest. He hadn't been able to do any such thing since he had coerced Sherrinford into keeping an eye on Sherlock so he could have a nap. The two of them together had not been the best idea he'd ever had. Pompeii was never the same again. Mummy had been most upset.

 

"If you lose, if you cannot corrupt this man, and he stays good and true and moral, you will promise to renounce your powers for let's say a normal human lifespan."

 

"You want a vacation, don't you?"

 

Mycroft just sat straighter.

 

"Fine. I will renounce my infernal power, my demonic talents, but not my intelligence or powers of observation if I cannot corrupt that man on the bridge. How shall we play this? He doesn't seem the type that would simply tag along with a complete stranger without some incentive."

 

Mycroft looked into the distance and this time his face did break into a smile. It wasn't a nice smile. In fact, three pigeons fell out of the sky dead because of it. "The 221B protocol."

 

Arms crossed, Sherlock looked at Mycroft. "Really? With Mrs. Hudson and everything? You think that's necessary?"

 

"Look at the man, Sherlock. You will have to woo him, entice him with the thrill of danger. He will not be easily bought. Are you so sure you can do this, then? A bit rusty perhaps?"

 

"Don't be ridiculous. All right. Standard house rules?"

 

"Standard house rules."

 

"Pinky swear?"

 

"Must we?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Fine. Pinky swear." The two linked their little fingers together, and a boat sank in the Thames. Neither noticed.

 

Mycroft stood up. "I will get things started and be in touch." He looked at his watch. "Look for his coming, let's say by the end of January. That should give me plenty of time to set in motion an idea I have. There will be a nice little incident to keep you interested, and I promise to throw in a few surprises to keep it stimulating. You will not be bored in the least. Now I must leave you. I have an appointment with the Prime Minister. His wife is driving him batty, and it is causing all sorts of lovely ripples in Parliament." With that Mycroft opened his umbrella, placed his heels together, toes pointed out and stepped off of the dome. A nice draught caught his umbrella, and he glided gently down to Earth.

 

No one noticed him settle on the ground and straighten his vest before he stepped to the kerb. A long black car pulled up, the driver got out and held the door for him. It drove away and blended in with the traffic.

 

Sherlock took another deep drag on his cigarette before flicking it over the side of the dome. Rubbing his hands together, a feeling of anticipation filled him. He could not wait until the Game started. A small amount of frustration was there as well, having to wait until January, but it would be worth it. Until then he could set things up on his end.

 

And it gave him plenty of time to stock up on lube and condoms.


	2. In the Pink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total, total crack. Be warned.
> 
> Thanks to mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for looking this over. Such silliness here:D
> 
> Special thanks to Ariane DeVere and her marvelous Sherlock transcripts on LJ. If you’ve never looked at them, do so. She worked hard on them and there are some lovely and funny little side notes in there too.

John H. Watson.

 

 

 

Occasionally aka Three-Continents Watson. Not talking sightseeing here unless you count a tour of hotel beds.

 

Sir, to his subordinates. Watson, to Command.

 

Johnnie to his sister and his Nan, only two allowed getting away with it. Ever. Don't even.

 

He was a dichotomy. Textbook case. Warm and cuddly, oatmeal jumpers and all the sass and perfection of a basket of kittens, especially after a rousing romp in the sheets. People often mistook him for a pushover, his height and seemingly innocuous behaviour, a Clark Kent mild manner fooling those poor idiots who only ever made that mistake once. Silly mortals who ignored the core of steel that ran through him. So cool under pressure, he made ice look hot. Crack shot and a hell of a maker of tea. Generals, Majors and VIPs looking to score brownie points back home by visiting the troops would listen to his quiet commands and wonder why they wanted to take him to bed.

 

There was something about him, some hidden thing that made people take notice. John Watson could snap his fingers and people would throw themselves at his feet. Men, women, dogs, cats willing to perform all manors of sexual favours. (To be fair, he wasn't into bestiality; just making a point here.) He was too much of a gentleman just to assume. There was always a bit of wooing involved. If someone wasn't interested and said no, well no meant no. Not that that happened often. Sex was something he fell into easily. He was a kind and attentive lover. He loved women, loved the way they moved under him or on him, loved their curves and the warm wetness of slipping inside. Loved men for the hardness of their lines, the hairiness, the long flat planes, smooth abs and the force of being pinned and thoroughly fucked. He loved being on top, bottom or in between with either sex. He loved cuddling after, wrapping arms, legs over his lover, long deep kisses and pillow talk. He loved waking to someone smiling down at him and breakfast after morning sex. He liked it slow and sweet. He loved it hard and rough.

 

There was something so irresistible about him, something good and right and safe, although he was as far from safe as could be. It might be that he smelled like spring after a rain and tea and warm bread and sunshine and whatever the hell else turned someone's crank. It could be the dark blue eyes with warm, toffee flecks and the crinkles in the corners from Afghani wind and sun. It could be his genial humour. It could be the fact women wanted to cover him with kisses, drape themselves on him, try to take care of him. Men, oh God the men, wanted to kiss him long and hard, full of flicks of their tongues and grind him into the bed. Married couples, happy in their fidelity, just out and about, taking a stroll, would watch him walk past with lustful eyes. They would wonder for the first time if their partner would be interested in a threesome. Be assured with John, they most certainly would have both wanted him and their normal sex life no matter how spectacular it was before hand would be downright dull after spending a night in John's arms.

 

So why was he here, all alone, tossing and turning in an unpleasant and cheerless bedsit? Gripped in the throes of a nightmare might be part of the answer. He didn't want to share that side of what he'd gone through with just anyone. Sent home after being injured, his livelihood and purpose stripped away from him with the impact of a sniper's bullet, he felt lost and alone. He hadn't wanted to give anyone the smoulder, bring them back to his drab existence or go to their place, lose himself in the rush and heat of sex. He was afraid of the look of pity or disgust in their eyes when they stripped him of his clothes and beheld the mangled scar.

 

So instead he woke in a sweat, a tangle of bedclothes and the trace of tears on his face. Sat on the side of the bed, afraid to sleep, until the sun came up, and he wondered if he could keep doing this. He forced himself once more to get up and face the day.

 

Exercise and fresh air were something prescribed to help him sleep, and it looked like a somewhat pleasant day for January in England. It was something he could manage. After his uninspired breakfast, he dressed and set off for the park. Hailed from behind, he thought to carry on as if he hadn't heard. He wasn't sure he could face the tone of recognition as it changed to the tone of surprise and pity, the tone of what-the-hell-happened-to-you. But he stopped and turned ready to greet this person, mostly, perhaps, because he was lonely.

 

It's a good thing he did.

 

oOo

 

John was going to hell.

 

He was not even sure he cared.

 

When Mike had taken him to Bart's to meet this man, this amazing, in your face, gorgeous man, he hadn't been sure at first. The man was rude and abrupt. He almost, almost rubbed him the wrong way and there was something hidden, secretive, deep and dark, something John could feel churning underneath the tight fitting trousers (and that, dear readers, was not a euphemism-just wait…deep breath).

 

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name," he had said. (His cock was whispering to him, _shut up! It doesn't matter. We like this one. Look at those fucking cheekbones. We want to touch the fucking cheekbones._ )

 

His name, for the love of Christ, was Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. Who the hell names a tiny baby Sherlock? He couldn't even imagine him as a small child. The man looked like he'd sprung full-grown, with his fucking angel eyes, chocolate curls and mouth of sin.

 

And with a twirl, a whoosh and a wink, ( _Hooray!_ said his cock) Sherlock Holmes was gone and Mike was grinning at him like he'd already placed bets on how long it would take them to rip each other's clothes off because Mike knew these things about John. Knew he could look at a man or woman and within ten minutes (one memorable night it had been three) he'd be snogging them senseless. It had helped pay for Mike's medical schooling, those bets, and now that he had a growing family, he wanted to save for his children's education. All off of John's back or rather all off of John being on his back.

 

Really, thought John, Mike was a bad man, and he was enjoying this far too much.

 

oOo

 

When Sherlock watched John Watson walk into Bart's, he almost stumbled and threw himself on John Watson's mercy. He had seen what it was that gleamed inside him from the top of St. Paul's that long ago autumn evening, as he watched a sad man stand on the Millennium Bridge. It was that brightness inside him, which made Sherlock take up the bet with Mycroft. To hold what John Watson had, to sully it and bring it to Hell would be his finest achievement. Take that Lucifer and put it where the sun doesn't shine.

 

But now, now he wasn't so confident, because what John had in his soul was so much more powerful up close.

 

As soon as he was in the same room, the smell of John, the down to earth mixed with heaven, cinnamon and burnt marshmallow smell of him engulfed Sherlock and filled his senses. It wouldn't take much for the tables to turn and John to be doing the seducing. That little, hidden spark was just so yummy and appealing. John didn't know that this was why people were drawn to him, wanted to run their hands through his hair and bend him over a chair, lick the back of his neck and thrust slowly. Sherlock didn't care if there was another person in the room. Let Mike watch. He wanted to take John into his arms and fuck him into oblivion. He wanted John to take him apart and make him shake and call on God, something he hadn't done for centuries.

 

 

Oh Hell. Mycroft knew. He knew. Blast him!

 

For a tiny, infinitesimal moment Sherlock was afraid and worried. What he saw was so much more than he'd prepared for. Then, just as quick, the fear was gone, squashed like a bug. This made it so much sweeter. He was Sherlock, Supreme Dark Lord, creator of The Spanish Inquisition, which no one had expected and inventor of Furbies. John Watson should fear him.

 

He would have to play this nice and cool. John had been badly damaged, and it was reflected in his soul. The tiny spark he carried inside, the one he had no idea about, was almost extinguished. With a squint and a tilt of his head, Sherlock could see it there, but it was fading, it would need nurturing to bring it back. There was no point, no challenge in trying to set up John's downfall until it had been brought back to tip-top shape, bright and shining.

 

With a nonchalance, he didn't exactly feel, he winked at John before leaving, watched pupils dilate inside navy eyes when the riding crop was mentioned and left to put the finishing touches on 221B.

 

When he arrived at the flat, the flat where the whole seduction scene would go down, Mrs. Hudson was already there waiting.

 

"Sherlock, dear! How nice to see you again. It's been so long. What have you been up to? Besides causing mischief that is. I heard about Korea and the elections. Was that you or your brother? The pair of you." Mrs. Hudson beamed at Sherlock as he bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek and a hug.

 

It had indeed been a long time since she'd been resurrected. Centuries ago she had been High Priestess of a lovely little coven. During an especially memorable night, which included naked dancing and the liberal use of hallucinogenic drugs, she had been able to summon not only Sherlock but Mycroft as well. The three of them had carried on famously (not like that! Eww! Get your mind out of the gutter). She had looked upon Sherlock and Mycroft, her boys she affectionately called them, as their surrogate mother. They had become very friendly, and Mrs. Hudson had them round for tea and the occasional blood sacrifice. When Sherlock and Mycroft found out about her abusive husband, they'd made a deal. In exchange for causing his early demise, she would be their housekeeper whilst she was alive and at their beck and call after her death. As it didn't seem too onerous, a little light housekeeping, taking out body parts, burning incense and lighting a black candle now and then, she had readily agreed.

 

So here she was, hale and hearty as ever with just a bit of grave dust on her shoulders, ready to help.

 

"Now then, would you like a cup of tea before we get started? I always say a good cup of tea and anyone can get down to work. What do you think of this dress? I am not sure I am going to get used to showing this much ankle outside of a worship circle. It would have been simply scandalous in my day."

 

Whilst Mrs. Hudson prattled on; Sherlock looked around the flat. The building had been owned by the brothers for centuries, as had the land even before there even had been a building. Investment property, Mycroft had called it. Sherlock hadn't cared as long as they had some place to rest and relax or simply entertain. Black magic made it flexible in how it presented and this time he had chosen a simple set of flats being rented out by a kindly landlady. Delving into Doctor Watson's history had shown he would not be able to afford something in London on his own for much longer but he would be amiable to share a flat with someone.

 

The flat was the last finishing touch. Everything else meticulously planned for. Sherlock had spent a long time setting up the scenario and implanting false memories into the supporting cast. Half the fun of a good seduction and winning a bet was attention to detail. Sherlock looked around at the slight dishevelled, mad scientist feel of the place and rubbed his hands together. "Mrs. Hudson, this is perfect. Now all it needs is Doctor Watson, and you'll be wanting earplugs!"

 

"Sherlock, the things you say. Are you sure this will work? Your brother was telling me right after the resurrection ceremony about your bet. You know what Doctor Watson is, don't you? It's not going to be that easy."

 

"Just you wait and see. My plan is foolproof!"

 

Later in the day, he would regret saying those words after John failed to keep up with him at Lauriston Gardens. It wouldn't be Sherlock's fault that he got a little side tracked. Mycroft knew how to tweak a mystery so he couldn't resist. Here was a perfectly lovely, little murder, the stage set as a suicide. The persona he had wrapped himself in, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, apparently worked its way into his subconscious and wanted him to solve the case.

 

In his excitement and enthusiasm to solve the case, he left John, beautiful, beautiful John behind and his brother, his own brother, interfering as usual, had had him picked up in that ridiculous black car, acting like the super villain he pretended he was.

 

"Mycroft!"

 

oOo

 

John, meanwhile, although confused and uncertain, was having a most excellent time being driven around, tempted by graceful curves and perfumed hair of the lovely woman sitting beside him. She seemed totally engrossed with texting on her BlackBerry. He wasn't sure how to respond to that. It wasn't often he was ignored in favour of technology. What he didn't know is that this woman, Anthea, wasn't allowed out of Hell often and she was enchanted with all the modern devices and in spite of John's many, many, many charms she was totally into women and had never once played for the other team. She was a committed individual.

 

After attempting to chat her up and failing miserably, probably for the first time in forever, he remained silent for the rest of the ride. He became slightly concerned when they pulled into an abandoned warehouse, ill-lit with stock evil, spooky individual. Upon meeting this dark and mysterious man, he was less than impressed. Who did he think he was? Bossy git, telling him to sit and either he'd had beans on toast for lunch or there was a serious gas leak nearby and Emergency Services should be notified. There was a strong odour of sulphur hanging about the place. When Tall, Dark and Creepy noticed John wrinkling his nose for the umpteenth time, TDC opened his suit jacket, reached, waaaay into the pocket and pulled out a lace handkerchief, which he preceded to wave around. The odd odour disappeared.

 

John must be exhausted although he felt more energized than he had in a long time because the man must have put away the umbrella he'd been swinging around moments ago somewhere. It simply couldn't have disappeared. He rubbed at his eyes and opened them in time to see TDC pull a notebook from the same pocket the handkerchief had come from.

 

"If you do move into, um…two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." He closed the notebook and put it back in his pocket, rummaged around for a moment and withdrew his hand, once again holding the umbrella. John needed to get some sleep.

 

After he had postured, argued and John had verbally slapped him down, all the while being interrupted by texts from Sherlock, the meeting ended with John feeling pretty good about putting Creepy in his place and he was on his way back to Sherlock.

 

oOo

 

Sherlock was not happy with Mycroft. He lay on the couch fuming and waited for John to return to his side. He knew he would. He'd enticed him with danger, and he would take him to dinner. Sherlock didn't need to eat, but John was human. He must be hungry.

 

Sherlock took John to his favourite restaurant, Angelo's. It had a nice atmosphere, excellent food and Angelo owed him after Sherlock saved him from murder charges. To be fair Angelo also owed him his soul, but that would be settled later, April 3rd, 2021 when Angelo would drop dead of a heart attack. Also, the view from the window was excellent for watching the street.

 

Sherlock didn't object when Angelo brought over the candle. He thought the flickering light suited John. He daydreamed for a few moments, thinking about after when this was all finished, and John was his. He'd build them a little cottage near the lava pits where they'd keep imps in the garden out back. John would look especially fetching, naked, in the glow of the flames of Hell.

 

And the way John kept licking his lips. Oh yes, he wants me! Yay! So why did Sherlock say he was married to his work! All he did was take a sip of water, and he was babbling about not wanting to…Oh no! There must have been something in the water.

 

"Mycroft!"

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"Uh, no…I said, My God!" He almost choked on the words. "A cab has just pulled up! After him, John!" And then, oh then, what a wonderful evening, the two of them together, chasing after that cab. The rush and high was better than anything and John! John was marvellous. John was wonderful. John was giggling. Giggling! And before he knew it they were back at the flat and out of breath, and it could have been, but a moment and Sherlock would have him in his arms, snogging him senseless.

 

"It's a drug's bust."

 

Oh for the love of Pete. No, no, no. He didn't really do drugs, but that was in his persona's past. The stage had been set too well. John was not looking at him in quite so adoringly. He was disappointed in him.

 

Fortunately, he saved the day when the password was figured out, and John was beginning to give him admiring glances once more, but then there was the cabbie and…

 

"Oh!" It all fit. He knew. He knew who the murderer was and oh my, the rush and the feeling of completeness. Why? Why had he never done this before? This was amazing. Off he went, not even thinking about it. Off he went with a man more dangerous than even he realised.

 

He knew how this would end. He would wrap up this case and John would be dazzled and then they would have sex on every piece of furniture in the flat.

 

oOo

 

Sherlock was definitely perturbed.

 

He sat in the Roland-Kerr Further Education College, in a very uncomfortable and extremely hard chair, hands folded in front of him, wondering how in Hell he managed to end up being enticed by someone his brother had nudged. He was definitely under Mycroft's influence. It was easy to smell the scent of trifle and spotted dick all over the man. He was rather surprised that his brother would choose to pick someone so shabbily dressed, not to mention thinking he was a ‘proper genius'. What idiot thinks making random strangers choose between two pill bottles is the equivalent of chess? It reminded him of something. Wasn't there a movie like this? Something about iocane powder. It didn't matter. It didn't matter because before he knew it he had the pill in his hand, holding it up to the light. It couldn't hurt, not really. He was impervious to poison, and he had a point to prove.

 

A small voice at the back of his mind, which sounded suspiciously like his mother, was warning him this was not right. He shouldn't be this interested in swallowing the pill. For a moment, he tried to move his hand away from his mouth, but he couldn't. It moved almost of its own volition.

 

As he was about to drop the pill into his mouth, there was a rather loud noise, a gunshot and breaking glass. It was enough to surprise even him. Hope lay bleeding on the floor. The fool was already slipping away; darkness gathered around him, and he could see the imps coming for the man's soul. He stepped on his shoulder, hard, forcing the word, "Moriarty! Arrggggh!" from his lips, just before he died. Once the imps had the squirming soul in their pointy little hands, he shooed them away and thought about what had just happened and what had been said. Who was this Moriarty? This was very, very interesting and a wee bit distracting as now he wanted to think about John, naked, in his bed.

 

He bent down to pick up the pill he had thrown. He would take it and examine it, purely for scientific reasons, to see if it was indeed the correct pill. He frowned as he looked at it. Not as strong as before Hope was shot, but there was definitely a continuing interest in putting the pill in his mouth. Quite possibly it was whispering to him, telling him to try it. It wasn't worth it. He crushed the pill in his hand and brushed the residue off. The need to take the pill disappeared with its destruction.

 

Telling Lestrade the tedious details, describing the shooter, he looked over and caught a glimpse of John.

 

And it clicked.

 

 

John was the shooter.

 

 

Fantastic, wonderful, beautiful John. He had shot and killed a man. For him.

 

It was all Sherlock could do to contain himself. He had killed a man. Yippee! Now he was going to go to Hell for sure! One simply didn't murder in cold blood and get a free pass to Heaven. No, no, no. He would take John back to the flat, make slow, passionate love to him and in the morning, he would arrange for John's demise and then they would spend Eternity together. And Mycroft would let him collapse that Bridge! Oh, it was Christmas! Or better!

 

Sherlock practically skipped over to John, and he smiled at him and John smiled back.

 

John was serious and funny. The glow from the police lights was almost as good as the fires of Hell. If this had been a movie, there would have been a swell of music, and they would have walked away together. They would have looked at each other and grabbed a bite to eat and even if they weren't hand-in-hand it felt like it.

 

"Sherlock, that's him. That's the man I was talking about."

 

"I know exactly who that is." He quick marched over to where Mycroft was standing, looking unbearably smug, like he'd shoved an umbrella up… "What are you doing here?"

 

"So another case cracked. How very public-spirited…are you sure you are working on our side or theirs? What is your motivation, Sherlock?"

 

John looked thoroughly confused.

 

"Mycroft, you promised you wouldn't interfere. Standard House Rules."

 

"I am not interfering, and I wouldn't break the Rules. You know how it upsets Mummy."

 

John was about to ask what they were arguing about and why he suddenly felt he was missing something important when that last phrase caught his ear. "No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

 

"Mother-our mother. This is my brother Mycroft." Sherlock wasn't sure if he would ever be able to introduce Mummy to John; he'd notice the horns for certain. Nearly everyone did.

 

"He's your brother?"

 

"Of course he's my brother."

 

"So he's not…"

 

"Not what?" Sherlock and Mycroft looked at John with a bit of trepidation. It was possible that some people, sensitive to things could see them for what they were, and John would certainly qualify for sensitive.

 

"I dunno-criminal mastermind?"

 

The relief was almost palpable.

 

Both men looked at John and John shrugged.

 

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Mycroft, go home. I'll speak to you later."

 

"Yes, indeed. We definitely need to talk. Doctor Watson."

 

Sherlock left, John in tow and he took John to a lovely Chinese restaurant. It was a perfect way to end a murder. Afterward, they returned to the flat.

 

"It's too late for you to go all the way back to your bedsit. Why don't you spend the night here?"

 

"Oh, okay, I guess. If that's all right?"

 

"Yes, yes of course. More than all right. In fact…"

 

"Because I don't want to impose, and I know I said I'd move in but are you sure? We haven't talked about how this will work. I mean are you okay with not cooking meat in the flat, well except fish, fish is fine and where do I put my record collection? Are you going to be okay with me bringing dates back to the flat or do you want me to go to their place? You know, stuff we need to work out."

 

"Oh, um, yes, of course. Well your record collection, hmmm, I guess I can move some books over. You're pescetarian? Pescetarian. There's always something. And as for dates…wait what dates? Who said anything about dates?"

 

Sherlock couldn't believe it. After all his hard work, one slip of the tongue and John wasn't interested in him. At least he was interested but he thought Sherlock wasn't and John was too much of a bloody gentleman to keep trying. Sherlock had said no, and no meant no in John's world. Erg! He stomped his foot, and a minor earthquake happened in Indonesia.

 

John continued talking, not noticing Sherlock's mini temper tantrum. "Well, I guess if you'd rather not, I can always go to their place. We'll just cross that bridge I guess. Cheers, Sherlock. I'm off to bed. Chat in the morning." He turned to go but paused. "Umm, I just want to say thanks again. I'm not good with this, sharing feelings thing, but I want to say this night was brilliant. Night!"

 

After John had left, Sherlock sulked in his chair. No sex for him tonight.

 

The only thing to come out of this in his favour was at least he had won the bet.

 

oOo

 

"What do you mean you won the bet?"

 

Later that night, long after John had slipped upstairs to bed, Sherlock left the flat to meet with Mycroft and continue their discussion without having to worry about John.

 

"Well, I did." He could barely contain his joy, so excited he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet.

 

"You did no such thing."

 

"I did!"

 

"And how do you figure that, brother mine?"

 

"I corrupted him."

 

"Oh?"

 

"He killed a man. That has to count for something."

 

"Oh, my dear Sherlock. Please. He shot a notorious poisoner, a murderer and a dreadfully bad cabby, and he did it to save you. That, my dear brother, was a noble and moral act. It simply doesn't count. You have to get him to do something truly heinous, to damn his soul, not," and Mycroft cleared his throat, "rescue a damsel in distress."

 

"Blast. I knew…I AM NOT A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS!"

 

Mycroft tutted.

 

"Fine. It was a noble act." Sherlock pulled a face. "But no more cheating!"

 

"I never cheat."

 

"You slipped something into my water. And what about those pills? There was something in them, I know it, I could feel it, yet I wanted to take them regardless. That was a very strong compulsion."

 

Mycroft looked honestly alarmed at the suggestion. "I would never do that, brother. You know me. Even playing field and Standard House Rules."

 

"Well someone is messing around. If not you then whom?"

 

"What about this Moriarty person. I heard Hope yelling it all the way to the Diogenes Club. There is something else influencing this bet, Sherlock. Be careful. I believe I felt the taint of him when I nudged Hope to commit those crimes. I was sure at the time he was influenced by a morally corrupt human but what if…"

 

"What if what?"

 

"What if he is something new?"

 

"Then he's something new, and we will deal with it. Until then…"

 

"Yes, until then you can keep trying to seduce Doctor Watson and influence him to commit bad deeds in your name. I believe the saying is, ‘may the better man win'.

 

"Go to Hell, Mycroft. Oh and say hello to Mummy when you're there."

 

"Purgatory Sherlock." Mycroft reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out his umbrella. He wet the end of his finger and lifted it to test the wind. With a nod at Sherlock, he opened it and stepped lightly off of the roof. The updraft caught him, and he disappeared into the darkened city skyline.

 

Sherlock didn't even notice his brother leaving.

 

He was too busy scheming and planning his next steps to seduce John.

 


	3. The Near-Sighted Money Lender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hadn’t planned on this chapter being a monster. This is one of my least favourite episodes. I find it very problematic in a lot of ways, but it also contains some of my favourite scenes between John and Sherlock. There was too much to poke at in this to pass up, so I have divided it into two parts. I have also divided it into the Van Coon/Lukis bits in this chapter and the Soo Lin bits in the next chapter. 
> 
> Thanks again to Ariane DeVere and all the hard work and funny, funny comments in creating the Sherlock transcripts. Much as I enjoy watching Sherlock over and over (and over) again to grab bits of dialogue, she has cut my writing time in half. I did add some of my own twists in some of the dialogue:P
> 
> And special hugs and thanks to my friends mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady who catch my mistakes and letting me bounce ideas off of their noggins.

A/N: Well I hadn't planned on this chapter being a monster. This is one of my least favourite episodes. I find it very problematic in a lot of ways, but it also contains some of my favourite scenes between John and Sherlock. There was too much to poke at in this to pass up, so I have divided it into two parts. I have also divided it into the Van Coon/Lukis bits in this chapter and the Soo Lin bits in the next chapter.   
  
Thanks again to Ariane DeVere and all the hard work and funny, funny comments in creating the Sherlock transcripts. Much as I enjoy watching Sherlock over and over (and over) again to grab bits of dialogue, she has cut my writing time in half. I did add some of my own twists in some of the dialogue:P  
  
And special hugs and thanks to my friends mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady who catch my mistakes and letting me bounce ideas off of their noggins.  
  
3\. The Near-Sighted Money Lender  
  
Bored.  
  
A bored Demon is not a good thing. A bored Demon can cause all kinds of havoc. A bored Demon can whisper in the ear of BBC and tell the head mucky-muck that hiring Jeremy Clarkson is a really good idea (Sherlock) or switch the regular coffee for decaf, added to a few sleepless nights and poof! Chernobyl (Mycroft).   
  
Sherlock was actually enjoying running around London with John. No surprise there. It would be better if he could figure out how to get John to lead the chase because then he could watch that magnificent arse as it moved ahead of him; he'd have to settle for following behind, up the stairs, whenever they finished a case. Yeah. That would be good! He was a bit surprised at how much he enjoyed solving crimes, some of which were created by his brother, some by other Demons and some just happened because people were, after all, people (blerg!). Many of the cases had come along because Lestrade had asked him for his help. He did not mind working with him as much as he thought he would. Lestrade had some potential to provide entertainment and Sherlock mentally patted himself on the back for choosing the man to be one of Sherlock Holmes's connections.   
  
But…  
  
But he hadn't heard from Lestrade in over a week. He was apparently busy with something, but no one seemed to know what that was and when Sherlock tried to scry for the man all he got was fog and a flock of pigeons. Weird that.  
  
And his brother! Where was Mycroft? You'd think he'd be interested in keeping tabs on Sherlock's progress, but when he tried to contact him through dark magic, Anthea just said he was ‘occupied'. (There were actual quotes. It was one of her powers.)  
  
Enough was enough and it was time he had another case. Not having won the bet yet, he couldn't very well let all Hell break loose just because he was bored. Rules were rules. He pulled out his emergency mobile, one he was only supposed to use to contact Mycroft in emergencies, hence the emergency part of the emergency mobile. And if being bored wasn't an emergency, what was?  
  
These devices were something. He'd become almost as enamoured of them as Anthea. Almost. There are easier and more nefarious ways to contact his brother, but he didn't want to burden Mrs. Hudson right now. She just got the bloodstains out of the carpet from the last time. Although he preferred texting, this was important enough actually to speak, with words and voices and things. He punched in Mycroft's super secret special emergency number and rolled his eyes at the same time. 6279 and then 7677467. Really Mycroft!  
  
"I'm rather busy at the moment. Is this necessary?"  
  
"Yes, it is."   
  
In the background, Sherlock could hear a familiar voice say. "Here to sweep your Chimney, Guv!"  
  
"Is that Lestrade? Mycroft! What are you doing with my Detective Inspector?"  
  
Through Mycroft's hand over the phone, he could hear him shout out to Lestrade. "Please step in time, Mr. Chimney Sweep. Is that a broom in your hand or are you just happy to see me?" Wild, raucous music began playing in the background and then Mycroft's voice came through as he hissed, "This is none of your business! I will NOT be speaking to you about this. Good Day!"   
  
Sherlock felt his stomach heave and tasted a tiny bit of bile. He vowed to never, ever speak to his brother again. He was also going to try to avoid being in the same room as Lestrade for a long time.   
  
He tossed the phone onto the coffee table and hastily wiped his hand on his jacket. Now, what? And where was John? At least if John were here, he could pretend to be looking at his email while secretly mooning over the way the sunlight shone upon John's golden head.   
  
oOo  
  
John, meanwhile, was not having a good day. He really, really hated the self-checkout at Tesco. He much preferred a real, live person, someone to chat with, talk about the weather, the cost of veg, bitch about politics. Not some cold machine that seemed hell bent on making his life miserable. He was pretty sure it was possessed. Instead of the usual clear, crisp, monotone female voice, this one was definitely male and with an attitude.   
  
"Unexpected item in bagging area. Please try again."  
  
"What? Oh for the love of…" John removed the plastic bag off of the glass of the scanner. "I just put it down for a moment. Fine, fine." He picked up the head of lettuce and attempted to scan it.  
  
"Item not scanned. Please try again."  
  
"D'you think you could keep your voice down?"  
  
"Perhaps if you knew what you were doing, I wouldn't have to shout."  
  
"What? Did you…?"  
  
"Item not scanned. Please try again."  
  
John shook his head. He hadn't slept well last night. He tried the lettuce again. This time, it went through. He picked up a box of condoms next.  
  
"Seriously, do you think you are going to see any action? Item not scanned. Please try again."  
  
John stood there, a look of surprise and shock on his face. "Now look here…"  
  
A man standing behind John cleared his throat.   
  
"All right, all right, keep your shirt on," he muttered. He tried again. This time, the box went through. Next to go through was a bag of crisps followed by a package of biscuits.   
  
"Both of them? You aren't working, you're starting to get a bit pudgy around the middle, perhaps you should think about putting one of those items back."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You want to date and get some, obvious from the condoms, but you're not going to get anywhere if you keep putting on weight."  
  
John looked back at the man standing behind him and took in the slightly impatient expression. It didn't appear he heard the scanner. The queue behind him was growing longer. John scratched his head. Is it possible Sherlock had somehow got his hands on the machine? It sounded a bit like him. Except Sherlock didn't usually insult him about his weight, much, intelligence yes.  
  
Shaking his head again, he pulled out his card to complete the transaction.  
  
"Card not authorized. Please use an alternative method of payment. Loser."  
  
"Got nothing. Right, keep it. Keep that. Loser, huh?" He leaned in and whispered hoarsely, "I'll show you who's a loser. Next time I'll come back with a screwdriver."  
  
Storming out of the shop, he thought he could hear a faint raspberry coming from behind him.  
  
By the time he reached the flat, he'd managed to convince himself he'd imagined the whole thing. He knew the effects of sleep deprivation, and he certainly hadn't been sleeping well.   
  
He trotted up the stairs and found Sherlock sitting in his chair, a faint look of disgust upon his face.   
  
"You took your time," Sherlock said.   
  
"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping."  
  
"What? Why Not?"  
  
"Because I had a row, in the shop, with a chip-and-PIN-machine. I think it was possessed." Sherlock was sure he heard John mutter something about showing that machine who the real loser was. Sherlock thought for a moment. Ah, Tesco. That would be Tony Blair or perhaps Oswald Mosley. Oh wait, Blair wasn't dead. Not yet.  Mosley on the other hand, very dead. He'd been a real menace on Earth and in Hell and had been sentenced to serve time somewhere safe and dull. No one liked politicians, not even Demons, and they usually ended up somewhere annoying. Look at what happened to Hitler. It appeared it wasn't working for Mosley. Fascists. It was a nuisance but not Sherlock's concern; if he thought about it, he'd mention it to Mycroft.  
  
He promptly disregarded and deleted it. What use were politicians when John was clearly upset? John hadn't had sex, he could see that, in spite of what the flushed face and slightly dishevelled hair might suggest. He'd been running his hands through it again, but in frustration, not gripped in the throes of passion. A somewhat dreamy expression crossed Sherlock's face as he imagined doing that to John, preferably while he lay helpless on the bed, tied down and…he abruptly stopped that train of thought and addressed the matter at hand before John became too suspicious.  
  
"You…you had a row with a machine?"  
  
"Sort of. It sat there while I hurled abuse at it and possibly it may have snarked back once or twice."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Never mind. Have you got any cash?"  
  
Ah! John needed funds. Hmmm. He had to do something about that before John took matters into his hands. Interesting. In the meantime…  
  
"Take my card." Get John out of the flat and he could fix this.  
  
"What happened to finding a case while I was gone? No word from Lestrade? Or even your brother?"  
  
A slight atavistic shiver ran down Sherlock's back, as he imagined, briefly, why that wasn't going to happen. Must ask John to pick up bleach so I can douse my brain. Erg!  
  
"Ah not at this time. It appears they are both somewhat busy." Blech!  
  
"Huh. Weird."  
  
"What?"  
  
"That they're both busy. You don't think…?"  
  
"Don't even go there, John.''  
  
"You're right. Although…"  
  
"Nope."  
  
John chuckled a little. "You know they're both lonely. It might be nice…"  
  
"Please. Just get the shopping."  
  
"Fine, fine." John left. Time to fabricate some work. Something that would pay well, enough that he could split the fees with John and John wouldn't have to worry about stupid things like money.  
  
He sat down at John's laptop and began to work a little dark magic. Muttering incantations, he soon found someone who would tie in nicely with Sherlock's ‘past'. It looked like he needed the help of a Consulting Detective. Ick. What a slime ball this man was. He was definitely going somewhere irritating after death.    
  
oOo  
  
John returned with the shopping and groused a bit about the lack of help, something about being upset about his password and Sherlock using his laptop, and where did the chicken feathers come from, blah, blah, blah, (John would look lovely with a ball gag in his mouth, he mused) Sherlock shoved John out the door and to a convenient crime. An ‘old schoolmate' of Sherlock's had emailed him about an issue at the bank he worked for and how he needed his help. Of course, John would never, ever know about how Sherlock had discovered it by a judicious use of meditation, black magic and chicken feathers. It had been an easy matter to slip false memories into this Sebastian Wilkes's head. He'd never know either. After it was all finished, and the case solved, Sherlock would arrange for the heart attack already developing to happen a little early, cover his tracks. ‘Sebby' as he was known to his ‘friends' would continue in the afterlife as the voice of Tube announcements. Sherlock was becoming more proficient at using quotes. Now Anthea wouldn't be the only one. Ha!  
  
 Shortly after arriving at Shad Sanderson Bank, they were shown to Sebastian Wilkes' office.   
  
"Sherlock Holmes."   
  
"Sebastian." As they shook hands, Wilkes clasped both of his around Sherlock's and then ran a finger on the back. He was so not Sherlock's type. That hand might have to be removed.  
  
"Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"  
  
Thank Hades, Lucifer and Hel that he had never met this man before. Before Sherlock could react, Wilkes turned and eyed up John. As was typical when someone first laid eyes upon John, all sorts of lascivious thoughts went through Wilkes's head. Sherlock was not amused. Perhaps he'd have to remove Wilkes's brain as well. After all, he wouldn't need it to make Tube announcements. There was no way he would let this creature touch John.   
  
"This is my friend, John Watson." Emphasis on the word friend, my friend, Wilkes. And soon so much more than a friend. You are not coming anywhere near him. Wait! What was that? What did John say?  
  
John had said, "colleague."   
  
Why John? Why? Sherlock was quite confused. What was this he was feeling? He was a Demon. He was a Hell VIP. There was no reason this should hurt him. But he was. John had called him ‘colleague.'  
  
John leaned over and whispered, "Sherlock! Are you listening to this? And why do you keep making air quotes?"  
  
"Oh, uh, right, it's nothing. Thinking out loud. Right, Sebastian, we'll take the case. It's an easy solution. I will be investigating one of your bank employees, Edward Van Coon. The yellow paint on the portrait is a specific message for him, a warning, a cypher. Although I am certain he is being threatened, I am not sure why, but I will have an answer for you shortly. John, collect the advance, and we can deposit it in your account. I am going to get some photographs of the message and then we'll go and speak to Van Coon. Right. Off we go." He stood up quickly, wanting to leave the office before he did something even more embarrassing.  
  
He was babbling. He knew he was babbling, and he couldn't seem to stop. John had called him a colleague. Here he was spewing all he knew about the case before Sebastian could fill him in. Stupid, stupid, stupid. His day was ruined.   
  
"Wait, Sherlock! Hang on." John caught up with him at the office/shrine of Sir William Shad. Ignoring John, pretending indifference, he whipped out his phone and took several pictures of the painted yellow marks across the overly large and self-important painting of the bank's co-founder.  
  
"That was amazing, Sherlock. How on earth did you know all of that? That arse hadn't even told you anything about it, but you just knew! You should have seen the look on his face. Milk would've curdled. He must have been a right tosser in uni. Git! And look at the advance he gave you!" John beamed at Sherlock and showed him the cheque. All was right with the world once more. John! Beautiful John thought he was amazing.    
  
John leaned in a bit. "Look, I think that I might have upset you back there, but I didn't want to give Wilkes any ammunition. He doesn't need to know we're friends. More professional this way. And what was with the look he gave you and the hand touching? How the hell did you become friends with that? The things you have to put up with in uni." John glanced around the office while Sherlock stood there, stunned. John was the amazing one. John was his friend and John was trying to protect him. His heart melted a little more. Or what passed for his heart. Demon anatomy is quite complicated. We're not getting into that right now.  
  
Realising he was still staring, Sherlock cleared his throat, "You got the advance?"  
  
"Are you all right? I don't think you're listening. Here look. If that's just the advance you are going to be getting a top rate payment after you wrap this thing up."  
  
"We are."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"We will be getting a top rated payment. Do keep up."  
  
"Oh, but hang on, Sherlock, no…"  
  
"John, don't be tedious. You work for me. When I get paid, you get paid. No more arguing. There can't be too many Van Coons in the phone book. Let's look him up, shall we?"  
  
John blushed. He blushed, and it was so endearing and adorable. But he also looked like he would argue some more, so Sherlock ignored him and left the Bank to find Edward Van Coon.  
  
oOo  
  
They broke into Van coon's flat, found him dead and Sherlock argued with the impossibly young DI (doing the job Lestrade should have been) that it was a murder, not a suicide. After they headed back to the bank to inform Wilkes of Van Coon's death only to find he was not there but out to lunch, in more ways than one. Sherlock rather enjoyed interrupting pig-boy's meal.   
  
"Not murder, Sherlock. I heard from the police. They are saying it is a suicide."  
  
"Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian."  
  
"I hired you to do a job. Don't get side-tracked."  
  
"That went well," said John. "And here I thought all bankers were heartless bastards."  
  
"Don't worry John. He will be when this is through."  
  
John gave him a funny look, but Sherlock was already out the door.  
  
oOo  
  
Early the next day, John left the flat and made his way to a doctor's surgery, where he had an interview for locum work. He hadn't told Sherlock where he was going, partly because he figured Sherlock had already deduced it and partly because whenever John mentioned work, Sherlock got a bit odd.  
  
Odder than usual.  
  
And slightly more possessive.  
  
John wasn't quite sure what to make of him sometimes. After a very clear message that Sherlock was not interested in dating and was married to his work, John gave up on his fantasies.  
  
Sort of.  
  
A wank now and then, thoughts of long legs and dark hair clenched in his fingers and what he imagined Sherlock would sound like as he moaned in his ear, that didn't count.  
  
Not really.  
  
He was ushered into the office of Dr. Sarah Sawyer and for the first time in a while thoughts of Sherlock left his head.  
  
She was pretty and smart. She was impressed with his CV and thought he was overqualified. They flirted a little. She swished her hair, and a subtle cloud of perfume enveloped him. He smiled. He smiled his smile that made men and women drop to the floor on their knees. He mentioned the clarinet.  
  
And thoughts of Sherlock came rushing back.  
  
Why hadn't he told Sherlock about playing the clarinet? Surely he would have been interested, particularly in his fingering technique. He was quite good.  
  
"Hmmm? Sorry?"  
  
Sarah smiled. She laughed. She placed her hand on his arm. She swished her hair again. She said he could start the next day.   
  
oOo  
  
Sherlock repeatedly had to ask John for a pen.   
  
Seriously.  
  
How hard was it to pass a frigging pen?  
  
"John? I said, ‘Could you pass me a pen?'"  
  
"What? When?  
  
"'Bout an hour ago and about twenty times since."  
  
"I was out. Getting a job. Didn't you notice I wasn't here?"  
  
"What? A job? You have a job."  
  
"I help you Sherlock, but I need to be employed. I need an inflow of cash upon occasion to buy things, pay bills. Besides I am a doctor. I like being a doctor. I should do what I am trained to do."  
  
"You're trained to kill people. You don't do that often enough. You should do that much more often. Keep in practice."  
  
"Sherlock!"  
  
"It's true."  
  
"We are not having this conversation."  
  
"So this doctor job thing you are doing. How much of my valuable time are you going to take up not being by my side?" This was unacceptable. How dare John work away from Sherlock and not at his side? He should be at his side every minute of the day, preferably naked. And that hadn't happened yet, which was becoming somewhat irritating.  
  
"I'll be working a couple of shifts a week; more often if things work out. Sarah needs an extra set of hands over the next few weeks." A smile played about John's gorgeous mouth, and there was a sex glow about him. Not the after-sex-glow glow, but the one where you are thinking about all-the-sex-you-are-going-to-eventually-get glow.  
  
"Sarah? Who is Sarah?" She must be found and eliminated as soon as possible. John would not look so smitten if they hadn't shared some flirting time. Arg! If Mycroft weren't somewhere chim-chim-chereeing with Lestrade, he'd suspect him of setting this up to get Sherlock moving. It wasn't as if he didn't want to corrupt John and make him fall. He wanted to corrupt him so much and in so many different ways and positions. It was just that it was incredibly hard to corrupt John. He was your basic decent person and he had the added benefit of having a little bit of a glowing personality. Literally. That was probably why this Sarah person had been all over John. He was sure she had touched him. Probably laid her hand on his shoulder. He figured it would smell a little like her, something sweet and cloying.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why are you smelling my arm?"  
  
"Hmmm? Oh no, uh, testing for air pollution. I'm doing a study of different effects of air pollution on body chemistry depending on the predicted weather forecast."  
  
"Sure you are."  
  
"Never mind that. Look at this."  
  
The looking at this bit led them to the next body. They arrived at the home of Brian Lukis another, mysterious almost suicide. What was with the murderers in London having their victims look like a suicide? Tedious.  
  
Eventually, they arrived at the Kensington Library and finding the same yellow paint cypher on the bookshelf, which Sherlock found to be a less than easily accessed place to put a cypher. Who does that? Move a few books and hope Lukis would just happen upon this threat, whatever it was. Very sloppy work. Sherlock was beginning to wonder if this was simply a matter of inept criminals or if there was some weird connection to the something new Mycroft had spoken of after the cabbie affair. Something new that didn't have a grasp of finesse.    
  
Back at the flat Sherlock stood in front of his wall of crime, looked thoughtfully at the photographs he had taken. John stood close at hand and looked equally thoughtful.  
  
And he smelled wonderful. Like himself again. Not like that harlot Sarah, with her perfume.   
  
Probably has swishy hair, too.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
Which she wants to drape all over him and move it up and down, tickling his body. "Hmmm?"   
  
"Why did they die? Van Coon and Lukis."  
  
Sherlock taped the newest photograph of the cipher at the Library. "Only the cipher can tell us, John. Let's go. I have to consult an expert!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me!"  
  
Arriving at Trafalgar Square, Sherlock led John back behind the National Gallery, where he consulted a young man named Raz. Raz apparently was a paint expert or at least a spray-paint expert and a professional in the fine art of graffiti, a trade somewhat frowned upon, particularly on public buildings. Sherlock asked him to search for signs of the yellow paint and the odd cipher. Before they could leave, a Community Support Officer rounded the corner. Sherlock dashed off, assuming John was behind him. He returned to the flat, still chatting to John.  
  
"That was a close call. Are you making tea? John? Oh for Hell's sake. Where's he got to now?! Typical. Now I'll have to make tea myself."  
  
When John finally returned, Sherlock was engrossed in a book. He failed to notice the look of anger on John's face.  
  
"You've been gone a while."  
  
"Miss me, did you?"  
  
When he finally looked up and saw John, he realized that it might not be good. "Umm…"  
  
"I got an ASBO!"  
  
Sherlock thought for a moment, then a surge of joy thrummed through him. An ASBO. What was that again? Does this mean John has done something truly terrible, and I've won the bet? Oh no! Erg! It's just a small-time offense. Probably community service or some sort. No worries, I'll fix it later.  
  
"That's nice."  
  
"Nice?! NICE! Sherlock! I have to appear in Magistrates court on Tuesday. I was fingerprinted! Me!"  
  
"I'll get Mycroft to take care of it. I'm sure he knows the judge. Or at least what he likes. Right now I need you to go down to the police station and look through Lukis' things. See if he had a diary or a day planner, something to tell us where he's been."  
  
oOo  
  
Not long after, Sherlock, hurrying through Chinatown, bumped into John. When he had sent John to NSY, he had gone back to Shad Sanderson to speak with Van Coon's PA. Figuring out from Van Coon's receipts and tickets, he'd ended up here.   
  
"Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died – whatever was hidden inside that case. I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information..."  
   
"Sherlock..."  
   
"...credit card bills, receipts, the position of the moon, a lucky coin and a black cat. He flew back from China; then he came here."  
   
"Sherlock..."  
   
"Somewhere in this street; somewhere near. I don't know where, but..."   
  
"That shop over there," said John, pointing to the shop across the street.  
    
Sherlock looked to where John was pointing and frowned. "How can you tell?"  
   
"Lukis' diary. He was here too. He wrote down the address."  
   
"Oh."  He followed after John, a little dazed.   
  
He's marvellous. He's beautiful. I think I love him.  
  
oOo  
  
Mycroft sat up from where he'd been nuzzling Greg's lovely tummy. A chill wind blew through the room.  
  
"Oh shit."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Oh Sherlock, no."  
  
  



	4. The Near-Sighted Money Lender Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know!  
> It's been over a year - I am so sorry:) I am hoping to get this story wrapped up over the next month or so:)  
> Please forgive me!
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful, angelic mattsloved1 for reading this over:D
> 
> Special thanks to all of you for your patience!
> 
> There will be a third part to this section.

The light and smoke from the fire burning in a nearby dustbin hurt his eyes. His head felt large and throbbed, a constant ache beating in time with his pulse. He tried to move his hand up to check the side if his head and to wipe away the trickle of blood trailing down his face but he couldn’t.

 

He jerked his head up, his memory of recent events starting to come back. The sudden movement caused his vision to swim, and he blinked a few times to clear it as he tried to piece together what exactly happened. The buzzer had rung, yes he remembered that. They’d been waiting for takeaway. He’d jogged downstairs and opened the door, thinking it had been their order. He didn't remember much after although the various aches and pains that were slowly signaling themselves to him suggested he’d put up a fight and been kicked.

 

What happened to Sherlock? It hadn’t been Sherlock with him but Sarah. Glancing around, he saw her not far, bound and gagged.

 

He struggled to loosen the binding around his hands, but the slightest movement brought a wave of nausea. Concussion then. Lovely. If only he’d just stayed home in bed. Pulled the covers up over his head. Minded his business. Watched telly like a normal person.

 

Blerg! Normal. That’s not John Watson.

 

At least Sarah would be safe if he had.

 

A figure moved toward him out of the shadows. The lady from the circus.

 

A rush of memories flooded his brain, and he began piecing together recent events.

 

Soo Lin. He remembered Soo Lin.

 

oOo

 

Sherlock and John made their way to the shop Lukis had penciled into his diary.

 

The bell on the door rang cheerily as John pushed it open and entered. He was greeted by the sight of hundreds of smiling, waving cats. He was a bit unnerved, but he would have been even more unnerved if he could have seen the look on Sherlock’s face as he followed behind John, ogling his buttocks; if he knew Sherlock was wondering if John would notice if he just reached out and maybe grabbed a handful…

 

“You want lucky cat?” the shopkeeper said. She looked incredibly annoyed and irked as if she had been waiting all day for them to stroll in. John thought business couldn’t be that bad. This was a prime location, and she had to do some commerce to pay the bills.

 

“Ten pound! Ten pound!” She looked as if the words tasted vile in her mouth.

 

“No. No thanks! Maybe another time.”

 

She waved her hand in Sherlock’s direction. “I think your wife, over there, Curly Fu. He will like.”

 

“Ummmm, not my wife, but thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

“Not my wife, my arse.”

 

“What…what was that?”

 

The elderly shopkeeper just smiled at John. He nodded uncertainly and for something to do to cover his confusion, he picked up a cup and looked at the bottom.

 

“Sherlock. Come here.”

 

Sherlock strolled over, still smirking over the exchange between John and the old lady.

 

“Look,” said John. “The cipher.”

 

“Of course,” he said and span out of the shop with John hurrying behind him.

 

“Hangzhou. Chinese number system. I should have recognized it, but it’s been years.”

 

“Years? Since you’ve been to China?”

 

“I’ve never been to China.”

 

“But you said...”

 

“Come on, John. I need to feed you up. You’re rambling.”

 

John’s stomach made a loud noise of agreement, and they entered the first restaurant they saw. A waitress appeared, plunked a plate in front of John and left. John shook his head. Perhaps Sherlock ordered ahead. He sat and munched his way through the meal as Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table, deep in thought.

 

“Smuggling!”

 

“What?”

 

“They are smuggling. Ha! I should have realized this right away. I probably did. Just didn’t let on. Yes!”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Hurry and eat John, we have to go over to that building there. The key is right in front of us.”

 

“It is?”

 

“Yes! That is the flat of a young woman who use to work for the smugglers. I need to go and see if there are clues to where she is hiding.”

 

“Hang on, how do you know that?”

 

“Simple, but too complicated for you. Let’s go.”

 

Before John could take another bite, Sherlock had swirled his way out the door and across the road where he crouched in front of a wet package that looked like the Yellow Pages. There was also a note, written on the back of a torn envelope.

 

SOO LIN

Please ring me

tell me you’re

OK

Andy

 

On the front of the envelope was written NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES MUSEUM. Sherlock put it in the pocket of his coat.

 

He rang the bell, more out of habit than expecting a response. After all, he knew for a fact the flat was empty. After a minute on excessive bell ringing he left and ran around the back, John on his heels. He jumped up easily and grabbed hold of the fire escape above his head. He pulled it down and scrabbled up. As it reached the top, the ladder swung back up to its original position. Just as well, he thought. John needed to stay out of the way. He would enter the flat, make a show of looking around whilst he phoned Mycroft and gloated. He had found his little clues and pieced them together. Mycroft thought he was so clever. Sherlock scrambled through the window so busy with his smug thoughts he failed to notice the silent figure sneak up behind him and clock him on the head with a cheap vase. Just as well. Mycroft was rather busy at the moment with a certain Detective Inspector and the noises coming from Mycroft’s mouth as he was being nibbled on might have made Sherlock sick.

 

John meanwhile was jumping up and down in a futile attempt to grab the fire escape, which was just a tad higher than his reach. He was less than impressed, and a slow burn was building up with the casual way Sherlock just forgot him in his pursuit of clues. He ran around to the front of the building and yelled Sherlock’s name. There was no response, so he leaned hard on the bell. Still nothing. “Open the door! Sherlock! Stop being a git and let me in!”

 

Worry began to creep inside John, a slow growth of what if something was wrong. He pounded on the door and yelled a little bit louder. “If you don’t let me in, I’m breaking through the door! Oh, for Christ’s sake. It’s always ‘I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I can’t stand anyone messing up my crime scene! I’m too good for John Watson.’ Fine!” John stood back a bit, glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his outburst. A few glanced his way, but no one seemed to care, so he raised a leg and kicked, hard, at the door. The door sprang open almost as if it hadn’t been shut properly. He raced through the corridor, up some stairs and found small flat. This door was definitely not locked, so he opened it, cautiously, to discover Sherlock, flat on his back, completely naked, except for his pants. John hurried over to the still figure, lifted up a pale arm as he pressed his finger to take his pulse and listened carefully to hear deep, steady breaths coming from his mouth. A wave of relief went through him. He carefully examined him, noted a rather large bump on the back of Sherlock’s head. His pupils appeared normal and responsive. During his examination, a small, not so professional part of his brain took note of the fact that Sherlock was trim and fit. He also was intrigued to see that Sherlock’s pants were black silk and had little tiny golden dots all over them. On closer examination, John saw the dots appeared to be bees.

 

“Oookaaay,” he breathed out. “That was not…well, hmmm…I don’t quite know what I expected you to be wearing on your pants, but not that.” He called Sherlock’s name a few times, but other than a few muttered words that sounded a lot like, “No Mummy, I don’t want to play in the lava pits with Mycroft.” Sherlock remained unconscious.

 

John sat back on his heels and thought. He decided the best he could do was to call Mycroft. Sherlock would not appreciate it, but he’d be far happier than if John called 999.

 

The phone rang. A slightly raspy voice answered, with a grumpy and groggy, “This had better be important, Doctor Watson. You are interrupting a very sensitive meeting during crucial negotiations.”

 

“Well, hello to you, too! I am sitting in a flat watching over your unconscious brother.”

 

Some indeterminate squeaking noises on the other end of the phone came through first before Mycroft spoke once more, “I beg your pardon? Say that again?”

 

“He’s out cold, lying on the ground. Someone took all of his clothes except for his pants, which…did you know they have bees on them? No, never mind. I don’t need you to answer that. I’m going to cover up his chest (and his nipples, his very unprofessional cock sang) with my coat but he’s lying there in…in his bee pants.”

 

“Good grief! I’ll send a car around. And some clothes for Sleeping Beauty. Please don’t get up to anything untoward whilst you wait.”

 

“Now hang on, just who do you think you are?

 

“I think I am Sherlock’s brother and that I am the most dangerous being, you will ever meet. Except perhaps for Mummy. Now kindly cover up my brother’s nipples and see what you can do about waking him!” The phone clicked off on the other end.

 

John started stupidly for a few moments wondering how the heck Mycroft would be able to find them when he hadn’t given him the address, how he knew that John was thinking undoctorly thoughts toward Sherlock and what he meant by ‘being’.

 

oOo

 

“I am fine John! Stop fussing!”

 

“It’s not fussing when I’m trying to see if you are okay! Jesus, Sherlock! You were unconscious for the greater part of the day. Now hold still for a minute. Good. You look fine, very fine; er I mean everything looks fine. I still recommend bed rest.”

 

Sherlock’s throat tightened, and his mouth went dry. It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest John rest with him, but it was too soon. He needed to be patient. Reel in this bright fish carefully. He didn’t want John to know just yet that the reason he’d found him unconscious was that he had put a little spell on his clothes so that if John ever found him knocked out, his clothes would disappear back to the flat. He had hoped it would be a simple matter for John to get all hot and bothered and take advantage of him while he was out. A simple way to corrupt John without having to do much. Unfortunately John’s ‘I’m a doctor!’ mode had taken over. Too bad.

 

“John, it is imperative I get to the museum where this Soo Lin worked and discover what she knows. She is an important key to solving this mystery. I’m going to go. I suggest you come with me to keep an eye on my recovery.”

 

John sighed. “Fine! It’s against my better judgment, but you won’t be still until you go.”

 

“Excellent!

 

Sherlock hurried to get dressed and came out of his room a few minutes later, with a coat that looked exactly like his old one slung over his arm.

 

“But your coat was stolen!”

 

“Oh, this? Yes, I have several. Let’s go John.”

 

“I still don’t know why you needed a flatmate.”

 

“Because Mrs. Hudson keeps taking my skull for midnight rituals and you are much more responsive.”

 

John just sighed. He was determined to stop asking questions to which he didn’t want to know the answer.

 

Soon they were entering the National Antiquities Museum and found the young man Andy who had written the note to Soo Lin.

 

After speaking to Andy, Sherlock had a brief look at the display Soo Lin was in charge of and then left, leaving John to be the polite one once more. He caught up with him outside the museum.

 

“Now what do we do?”

 

“We speak to Raz.”

 

“Raz who left me holding the paint, Raz?

 

“Of course. How many Razs do you think I know?

 

“Right. Well. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”

 

“You shouldn't do that. You haven’t got much to spare.”

 

“What did you say?

 

“Hmmm?”

 

“Never mind. Let's go. Where will he be?”

 

“I suspect he got cut out of this next scene.”

 

“Are you sure you are all right? Head hurting? You aren’t making any sense.”

 

“Oh right. Not important. Extraneous information. Budget cuts. We didn’t pay for him in for the next scene in this version. Tell you what; you go toward the rail line and I’ll look over here,” he gestured vaguely in the area of the South Bank. “We are looking for more of these yellow symbols. I suspect we will find them hidden like a tree in a forest.”

 

“What on earth? Sherlock, please go home and lie down. I seriously think I need to get you to the hospital.”

 

“Nonsense. Off you pop. Yellow paint.”

 

John huffed a bit and set off. After walking what felt like hours he ended up in front of a wall covered with yellow symbols.

 

“Yes! Excellent.” He punched in Sherlock’s number and let it ring. “No, don’t answer your phone. That would be too easy.” He took a few snaps of the writing on the wall and then jogged back up the tracks looking for Sherlock. He found him leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette.

 

“Excuse me, what the hell? I’ve been calling you! Answer your phone. I found the symbols.”

 

“Admirable. Knew you had it in you. Lead on.”

 

John took him to the wall with the symbols, which were now covered up with black paint.

 

“But they were just here.”

 

“Someone doesn't want me to see it.” Sherlock’s hands engulfed John’s face as he swung him around.

 

Hello! Said John’s cock, remember me! “What are you doing?”

 

“Shhh. Enjoy this while it lasts. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes.”

 

“The hell I will.”

 

“Stop protesting and just concentrate. I need you to maximize your visual memory.”

 

“I’m about to maximize my stomach contents.”

 

“Do you see the symbols? Can you visualize them?”

 

“Yeah, pretty sure I have a good picture of them.”

 

“You remember it?”

 

“Definitely.”

 

“Really?

 

“Yeah. I took a picture with my phone.”

 

“Oh. Well yes of course. Hmmm. Whip it out, then.”

 

“What?”

 

“Your phone, of course, I meant your phone. Whip it out.”

 

John fumbled with his phone, feeling the effects of the spinning. And the touching. And his cock kept cheering in the back of his head.

 

Sherlock looked at the pictures on John’s phone of the yellow graffiti. And managed to catch a quick glance of the selfies John had taken posing naked in the bathroom mirror. Right. He’d have to sneak a better look at John’s phone later. In the privacy of his bedroom.

 

“I know exactly where we need to go.”

 

“Where?”

 

“The museum.”

 

“Again?”

 

“Yes. Soo Lin is hiding there trying to avoid her brother who is part of this smuggling ring. They were estranged when Soo Lin escaped the life of a smuggler. He has vowed to kill her for her betrayal, so she has gone into hiding. To the museum.”

 

“How the hell did you know that?”

 

“I read the script, John. It makes more sense if we skip the extraneous details. This chapter is far too long as it is and people have been waiting a year now for an update.”

 

“I really don't understand you sometimes.”

 

“As it should be.” They headed back to the museum.

 

oOo

 

Soo Lin sighed. This was so stupid. Why in Hell had she agreed to this? You’ll get out of Hell for a bit, they said. Pretend to be a damsel in distress, they said. Make tea for the tourists, they said. It will be easy. A role of a lifetime! But no, now she was stuck, hiding in the basement of the National Antiquities Museum, waiting. She should know better. No. A ‘role of a lifetime’ would be easier than this.

 

And bored! At least she didn’t have to make any more tea. She hated the way it smelled, the dryness of the leaves on her fingers. Ugh! Wet leaf water. She was a coffee girl. A delicate shudder went through her frame. This was not how a famous former actress should be treated, toasted of Chinese cinema! Just wait until she was back in Hell. She would personally see to her agent’s roasting. And whoever the writer was of this so called script! Full of stereotypes, plot holes and who knew what.

 

There was a noise from up above. Someone had entered the building.

 

Showtime.

 

oOo

 

“I knew you were here!” Sherlock turned to John. “I knew she was here!”

 

“Yeah, you said.”

 

“So Soo Lin. There’s the cipher. I need you to translate it.”

 

“You need the code.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“It’s in a book.”

 

“Yes.”

 

She sighed. “Do I have to do everything?” She rummaged in her desk for a sharpie. “There’s more I'm supposed to say. Hang on. Line!”

 

“What?” asked John.

 

“Line. I need my next line. Oh, wait.” She trembled and hunched into herself. Her accent became thicker. “My brother has become a puppet to the bosses. He is on the power of the one they call Shan…The Black Lotus General.” She took off her shoe. “See? This is their mark. All who haul for the bosses wear this.”

 

“Sorry? Haul?”

 

“Smuggle, John.”

 

“He said I had betrayed him. I refused to help him. He will kill me.”

 

Sherlock pulled a photograph from his coat.

 

“Hang on! Where did that come from?” Asked John.

 

“Best not to ask too many questions. Can you translate this?”

 

Soo Lin looked at the photograph of the cipher. “These are numbers.”

 

“Yes, I know.”

 

“Here. The line across the man’s face, it’s the Chinese number one.”

 

“And this one is fifteen. But what’s the code?”

 

“All the smugglers know it.”

 

“Well whoopee for the smugglers.”

 

The lights flickered and went out. Sherlock took off out of the room. John hesitated. He should stay with the girl. She crossed her arms and looked at him, her eyebrow raised. “Well?”

 

“Well, what?”

 

“Are you going to go after him?”

 

“I…what?”

 

“What does he see in you? Look I’ll hide here. You go after your boyfriend.”

 

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

 

“Well, he should be the way you look at him. Go!” She did have to do everything.

 

John raced after Sherlock. There was some running, some gunshots, something about ancient skulls. Sherlock does have a thing for skulls. John pulled up short when he heard a gunshot coming from the direction of the room where they’d found Soo Lin. How her brother had got back there so fast was beyond him. He raced back, but he was too late. She lay on the table and in her hand was an origami black lotus flower.


End file.
